At times they saw a hut perched on a hill above the roadway, but they did not care to investigate, and passed them by. These places of habitation were constructed somewhat like the North American Indian’s tepee, of boughs wound with animal hides.
But this all had been at a higher altitude. In the valley which they now trod, and which was a tropic jungle, there was no sign of man save the narrow path—and the path at times was almost lost to sight in the dense growth—which told that occasionally llama trains passed that way.
Toward four o’clock in the afternoon they reached the lowest part of the valley, and at that hour the clouds cleared away and the sun came out, causing the leaves to glisten as if studded with diamonds, and the air became heavy with the perfume of flowers and the exudations from plants and vines.
Coaxed by the sun, hundreds of butterflies drifted lazily from the sides of the jungle and moved as if borne by light currents of air from flower to flower. Some were white, their large wings dotted with golden yellow; others were purple, fringed with black; others the color of the dandelion, and still others were crimson. In and out, between these slow-moving seekers of perfume, darted hummingbirds like dashes of many-colored lightning, and the torn air sounded a faint note as they passed. This sunlight also brought lizards of many hues into its warmth, and chameleons which when prodded changed color, from green to red or to purple, depending upon the stage of anger. Meanwhile the atmosphere grew heavier with the tropic odors which the warm rain had coaxed from the vegetation.
“My, but I’m sleepy!” said Hope-Jones.
“So am I,” answered Harvey, who was bending over his knapsack and placing therein the rubber coat, of which he stood no longer in need. “Can’t we camp hereabout?”
“Ran ... to the side of his friend, whom he seized by the collar.”
“Miasma! chills! fever!”
“What’s that, Mr. Ferguson?”